Neuroshima Hex!
by Notthegovernment
Summary: In the barren and irradiated wastelands of post apocolyptic America, humans, mutants, and cyborgs fight to survive against the environment, each other, and Moloch, a massive computer network with the simple goal of wiping out all organic life. Based on the boardgame of the same title. T for: violence, blood, language.


Hello, It's me, notthegovernment, here to do something stupid (again). My first story was a weird mix and the first of its kind... and M... so it hasn't really gotten any form of viewership going for it (don't worry, the two people who care, I will continue anyway). So I decided to do something in the T category, hopefully to get more viewers... and decided to make a story about an obscure boardgame/ Iphone game that probably no one here has heard of... I'm not a very smart not government... anyway, my next story (I have a plan!) may actually see 10 people, as it will be something popular (but again, not a popular mix) whatever, I'm wasting your time. Hopefully enjoy this!

Chapter 1: Standing ground

The scorched and barren wastelands, nearly devoid of life, that was once the teaming state of Texas. The roads lie baking in the sun, cracked and smoldering as the abandoned vehicles slowly bleach along the sides, the occupants either missing or nigh on mummified. The empty highway seems to stretch in both directions infinitely, with no end visible to the human eye. The offshoots and exits lead to ghost towns and ruins, which where in no short supply after the greatest war in human history... Okay, that's a bunch of shit. To call what happened here a war is to call the rape of Nanjing a minor skirmish. No words that I could ever come up with could ever describe the scale and magnitude of the event, and even if I could, it would be a lie to call what happened a war. It was a purge of life, it was declaring massacre on all known forms of life.

One figure slowly plods along the empty roads, a burly, armored metal man, with fully articulated fingers and joints, a power source on its back, and wielding a massive rail gun. That "it" is me, 13th mobile armor for the outpost, a nomadic army of survivors, constantly on the run from the various armies and clans of the wasteland. We may be well armed, well trained, battle hardened, and badass as hell, but that doesn't mean we can win a war with anyone. There are barbarian clans out there, just roving warlords, with three times our numbers. There are machines that can take out a column of us with one blow, and mechs that can take more fire than a brigade of us put together. So, we scrap, salvage, and run, taking what supplies and men we can, avoiding any fight we can, slowly retreating our way around America and into a land up north my dad calls "Canada", where we can finally take on the head machine mono-e-mono... not that I don't want to fight, oh no, I really wanted to fight...

I shake my head clear. God, what is wrong with me? Thinking like a guy in one of my dad's books. I keep moving down the highway, knowing the cars gas has been siphoned off by now. It occurred to me that with all the gas stolen (no other reason all the hoods would be popped up) the ruins I was heading for may not be so ruinous... There may be some people. The thought of other survivors was a mixed bag of hope and fear. They could be new friends, new filler for the ranks of the outpost, or they could be part of some rival survivors, ready to slit our throats in the hope of water and weapons. I push these thoughts away. We'll see what happens when we get there, won't we? Plus, this is all probably just paranoia, as whoever (or whatever. Can't forget the whatever in a place like this) leached these cars probably wouldn't want to stick around. They probably split weeks ago, looking for more arable climates.

I continue trudging down the road, the padding within the mechanized armors hull cushioning my heavy foot falls and giving much needed insulation. It's situations like these that make me bless the kind genius that built these things, the way the pistons made the legs move, faster than any human could and almost with no effort, the way the servos made the gun feel like any other rifle, and not the 60 pound behemoth that it was, the way the shoulder pads, rear energy pack, and even the chest cavity, had built in water and nutrient supplement storage, all pumping through tubes right into the users mouth on command... it almost makes you think the engineers made the visor a maddening and ridiculous crimson red just so the suit wouldn't be too perfect, forcing the user to leave it once in a while.

After another hour or so of walking, I finally spotted the exit I needed to take, into the ruins of the little mining town. I slowly crept up, keeping low (well, as low as a 7 foot battle mech could go) along the concrete walls on the side of the highway. I was now at eyelevel and could see into the little town... "Ah crap." I cursed aloud. From my vantage point I saw my destination, with at least 30 survivors milling about pulling ore (from the mine) and scavenged supplies into two sizable piles. But these were NOT the good kind of survivors, oh no. Along some of the buildings, flapping lazily in the light desert gusts, was their flag. A simple circle, with three scythes protruding from the center at 120* angles. I knew, if my visor were not red, that the flag would in fact be yellow.

I flicked on the radio "Base, this is OMA ONE THREE. Can you read me?"

A brief pause, static, then a click "This is HQO, we read you. What's your status?" A female voice replied, stern and professional.

"HQO, I'm at the objective site, on scouting/ minor gathering mission and I have hit a barrier." I pause, thinking of how to put this without getting the usual response. "Site has minor Hegemony outpost, as indicated by many Hegemony banners. RCA?" I ask, knowing the response.

"Fall back to HQO, your mission has been aborted." she replies. I sigh inwardly, knowing this was the response I would get. I knew why I was ordered to run, and I get that the base was probably too much for me to handle, but... I was damn tired of running. Once, just ONCE, I'd like to send the other gangs, the machines, the in betweens, and the unknowns a message. A message that the outpost isn't a bunch of cowards, a message that we are here to defeat the evils that plague the land, a message that we are not a force to be laughed at, that we are not to be fucked with... and I was going to deliver that message, right the fuck NOW.

"HQO, be advised that I have considered the proposal and have decided to decline. Will be engaging hostiles in T-60 minutes." I responded, peering back over the ledge to check the enemy troop composition.

The woman sounded like she had just been told the sun was going to explode "THAT WASN'T A PROPOSITION, THAT WAS AN ORDER. GET BACK TO BASE. YOU CAN'T TAKE A BASE FULL OF THEM, AND WE CAN'T AFFORD TO LOSE ANY OF OUR MA'S."

I lightly chuckled "It's not that many, just 20 or so. I'm pretty sure I can handle 20 or so." I chirped, taking note of the lack of gun wielders amongst the survivors.

"WE FORBID YOU FROM ENGAGING. THERE IS TOO HIGH A RISK OF CASUALTY. COME BACK TO BASE NOW AND WE WILL RECONSIDER STRIPPING YOU OF YOUR POST AND CITIZENSHIP."

I smile, checking the clock in my helmet. "If you say so. If that's the case you have 59 minutes to send me some back up, or else you're going to be down one Mobile Armor." I switch off the radio, knowing the next call would likely be a scream. I slouched down and waited, keeping my eyes out for any enemy too perceptive for his own good...

I couldn't believe it. The nerve, the freaking NERVE of this punk. Risking our most valuable equipment over a useless freaking mine. SCREW THE MINE! Whatever ore was there it ain't worth the loss of a mobile armor. I ran across the desert landscape as fast as I could carry myself, mechanical legs pumping away. In most cases, preparation, armament, and inspection of a mobile armor suit took 45 minutes. Because of this prick they just shoved me in the suit and told me to run like hell, leaving only five minutes after the kid's last transmission. I was the fastest thing they could send, even the scouts couldn't reach the exit in 59 minutes, and I still probably can't make it.

Hell, what kind of kid was this anyway? If any other soldier tried this kind of crap the outpost would give a curt "Tough shit" and leave their ass for dead. Even an armored would probably have to sacrificed if they where about to desert. Why the hell was this kid so important?

I look at the clock. "5. 4. 3. 2. 1. 0. Alright, lets get some coffins ready, because these barbarians are going to be four feet under in a second." I say, picking my gun off the ground. I take aim, looking for what looked like the leader. I saw a runner, the couriers from gang to gang, bounding around. "Probably not a damn letter carrier." I spot some sword wielding gangers, patrolling around some... what the... oh crap.

The gangers pounded their chest and gave out animalistic cries, probably on some sort of meds, as they pranced around four tied up survivors. They looked worried, helpless, and young. The oldest (a woman missing her left eye) appeared to be in her early twenties. "No, no no NO! There weren't supposed to be innocents! This was supposed to be abandoned town!" I muttered worriedly. If I just started wasting these guys, they couldn't fire back, but they would kill those survivors. If they were tied up than they were just going to be slaves anyway.

No... If I could kill the gangers fast enough, I may have a shot at helping those guys... but with how many there were... Crap... I guess here goes nothing! I head down the exit, trying to formulate some words that would maybe get those savages to surrender the four innocents. I stepped off and passed a sign for el Potosi, the streets feeling more claustrophobic by the minute. I set weapon to secondary fire, turning the weapon from a powerful sniper to a devastating scattergun. Sweat beaded on my forehead, more so now than when I was walking in the mid day sun. Finally, I passed under one of their banners, and came face to face with one of their men.

It was a great big thug, a hulking mass of dark orange muscle that seemed impossible to maintain for any human with the lack of nutrients in this desert. He was just as tall as my suit, and far more burly. "Mph- Mph- Mph, Mum-Mimph, Mph?" He slurred from under his white face mask, reminding me that these guys weren't exactly human. I take a few cautious steps back as the mutant (Well, I say that in a relative sense, seeing as how he still had all his limbs in the right place and was roughly still a man) lifts his massive hammer, the two handed wooden grip as thick as an arm, and the square concrete head weighing more than 80 lbs. He mumbles something again and steps towards me, his big meaty legs designed for bearing weight. I take a few steps back and ready me weapon.

"Uh, hey there big guy! I was just walking by, and I wanted to know if I could talk to your boss, is that cool?" I ask, trying to keep the fear from my voice. He waves his hand and gives a long "MMMOOOooo." I look at him confused. "Uh, is that a... yes?"

"He said no." Came a voice further behind him. I peer over the thug's shoulder and see a man, thin and dark, dressed casually for the heat, just a simple open neck shirt and some grey pants. He looked into my visor, with a look of glee and menace, as he haphazardly flipped a pre war coin in his hand.

"Excuse me, are you the boss?"

His smile turns to a sickening, cackling laugh. When he is done, he looks back at me "No, I'm not the boss. You can't talk to the boss, you aren't even allowed to THINK about talking to the boss. You have nothing to say to him, and he doesn't have the time to deal with an incompetent ninny hammer such as yourself."

I get a little more stern, my face souring (not that he could tell, unless he has really good eyes) "Look, I'm going to level with you. I've got about 50 guys on the way, and I told them to hold back until I've got the hostages you've taken. Now, I can only hold them off for so long. If I'm not back in 5 minutes, they're going to come in here and kill you and all your men, hostages be damned. So, if you want to keep living and breeding, I suggest you hand over the people you've captured, you'll get a five minute head start from my army. What do you say, you think your boss has time for me now?"

The man looked at me for a moment, his eyebrow raised. Then a smile, then a giggle, then a full blown gut wrenching laugh. Crap, he's calling my bluff "Oh, young man, you are a horrible little prevaricator. The outpost army would never send a Mobile armor on a diplomacy mission, even we who refer to ourselves as barbarians are able to ascertain such a rudimentary fact." He replied, his weird big words starting to grate my nerves.

The man then snaps his fingers, causing the brute to raise his massive hammer. Before he even gets it above his head, I have my gun less than an inch from his face, fully charged. The thug hesitates, his little mind struggling to put the pieces together. I hear a scream and instinctively flip to see a runner charge me, brandishing a short sword. He screams and leaps, slashing at my gut with his sword. I kick him back, the armor powered kick crushing the little guys ribcage as he is sent flying back. He lands in a heap at the entrance of what was left of a house, coughing blood and wheezing through his white sport mask.

I turn just in time to see the thug bringing his hammer down. I leap back, far more agile than something of my size tends to be, and raise my rifle. The thug barely has the chance to look up before I pull the trigger, sending scattered wads of semi irradiated metal flying out in conical formation. The shell didn't rip the guy apart so much as it disintegrated him, causing huge chunks of his torso and limbs to be reduced to ash and thrown upwards of thirty feet in less than .007 seconds, the projectile braking down to harmless atoms as they passed through, leaving the office unscathed. The Thug simply falls to the ground, dead, as the officer runs off to gather his men. Crap, this is bad. This thing has no penetration (as the round tend to dissolve in the target) can't fire fast enough, if these guys rush me...

I give running a serious thought. These guys had no guns, and not even the runners could keep up with my mech. I could leave now, get back to base, and ask forgiveness. My suit had a gash in the front from that runners blade (the term "mobile armor" is a bit of a stretch, as the metal and cloth combo, while tough, can't stand up to much more than bare fists and light rocks, seeing as how thin they had to make it to fit in all the tech.) but other than that is was unscathed. I could go back, say I was out of line, maybe get repair duty for two weeks, then put this whole mess of a situation behind me... I could still live...

Maybe I could live, but I couldn't live with myself. I pre charged the rifle and ran around the corner, knowing that the hostages would be bait real soon unless I got to them now.

I had no time to react as I ran right into the net fighter. He puller the trigger, and out from his gun came a great steel mesh net, the fibers quickly covering my suit. I knew what was coming, they had showed us in training a million times what happens when a net of steel ensnared you, but this would be the first time I actually felt th- ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ! I scream as electricity bursts through me, sending my muscles into a spasm and forcing my mech to the ground, electronics out of commission. I force myself to stay awake as the electric tingle still courses through me, now at a slightly suppressed rate. I cannot control my body, and the only thing that distracts me from the pain of the electricity was the pain of my arms and legs smashing into the suits sides, the padding stopping them from breaking but little else.

I slowly black out as the net is removed, the fighter bending over and poking his armored head under the now harmless net and looking right at me. I finally nod off. I should have ran.

**COMMENT!**


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